The Fatherless Kind
by LovelyFarron
Summary: They are the future of Ferelden-the finest hope of the land-but they are young, inexperienced, naive. Duncan puts his hope in a royal bastard and a vengeful noble, trusting them to retake the land and extinguish the Blight that threatens to swallow it. He foresees their greatness, but what he doesn't foresee-their love-is what will save the world.
1. Prologue

Game: Dragon Age

Pairing: Alistair/Cousland (F)

Genre: Romance/Humor

Rating: T

Summary: The youngest Cousland

A/N: As with my Mass Effect fanfiction, I am not going to describe Cousland in any detail or mention her first name. I want everyone to be able to envision their own character!

Also, this is going to take a different approach to Origins. It's going to start out with this prologue with the first couple of chapters focusing on Duncan meeting Alistair for the first time, initiating him into the Grey Wardens, and then going to recruit the Cousland. After Duncan dies the story will continue of course, with the focus being on Alistair and Cousland as they put together their team to defeat the Blight.

The Fatherless Kind

~Prologue~

The night was still young and the moon was shining brightly above as fires lit the darkness where the moon's silver beams could not reach. Aside from the restless hounds in the camp and the occasional murmur of the soldiers occupying the stronghold, not a sound was to be heard. It was peaceful, a deceptive tranquil that would be shattered in just a few hours' time.

"This brings back fond memories."

Duncan blinked and looked down at Alistair, stirred out of his reverie. The elder Grey Warden's thick arms were crossed across his muscled chest, a look of contemplation decorating his battle-worn face. The Joining had been successful; even though just one had survived, he still considered it a victory. One more Warden to fight against the darkness, one more soldier in the fight against the unending tide of evil, one more life to be ended violently by the sword...

Sighing, the aging man shook his head.

"Huh…" Alistair hummed to himself as he knelt beside the young woman, his brow furrowed and lips drawn tightly together. "I don't think she hit her head, did she? I tried to catch her, and I did a marvelous job of trying if I do say so myself, but I'm afraid she might have cracked her skull against the ground a bit too hard." He threaded his hands together and looked up at Duncan. "Just for the record, this is _not _my fault," he said wryly, a bit of humor in his voice. "Congratulations! You survived choking on blood only to be felled by a rock."

"She will be fine, Alistair," Duncan said lowly. "She just needs some time to recover. Don't you remember how your Joining went?"

The junior member grimaced as he stood up, and whether it was from sore muscles or the memory of his Joining, Duncan did not know.

"All too well," Alistair admitted. "I'd rather not think of it." He tilted his head, studying the woman caught in a restless embrace of sleep. "I wonder if she's having spooky dreams, like I did. Not exactly the most pleasant way to end an un-pleasant experience. I suppose it beats waking up and finding out that you've died."

Duncan raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. The Cousland girl was strong; she had a fire within her. The way she had spoken with authority upon accepting the mission to venture into the Kocari Wilds, how she had fearlessly stood up to those that had betrayed her family, the grace with which she carried herself despite her sorrow…It was no wonder that she had been able to survive the ritual.

He turned his gaze back to the unconscious woman lying on the broken stone ground, his expression softening.

It many ways, she reminded Duncan of himself in his younger days, back when he had first heard tales of the Grey Wardens and then become one of the selected few to bear the honor and—as he had later found out—the burden that came with such a title. He had been delighted to recruit her, but despondent at the circumstances surrounding her enlistment. He had promised Teyrn Bryce Cousland that he would not force the Right of Conscription and take his only daughter away, but then had threatened to withhold his aid should he not let her become a Grey Warden.

Fear, desperation, and grim acceptance had flashed through the Teyrn's eyes in less than a second, knowing that either choice he made would doom his daughter sooner or later. Was he to save her a death by the hands of the traitorous Howe? Or condemn her to fighting against evils he could only begin to imagine?

It was only fair, Duncan supposed, to have demanded her life in return for saving it. Still, there was a hint of guilt in the back of his mind bothering him. He had thought that such emotions had long since been quenched, but apparently there were still a few around to remind him of his own humanity.

Even Alistair did not know what being a Grey Warden truly meant. Duncan wasn't tricking either of them by not fully filling them in—they were both still green after all—but he wasn't exactly being truthful either. There were gaps in their knowledge that would be filled in as they came to understand and accept their new roles in the world. If the ceremony had been any indication, being a Grey Warden was not for the faint of heart. It was too late to turn back now though, for Alistair or the Cousland. If they had been any less than what they were, they would not have survived.

Now Duncan had to take the youthful vigor that he found in her, that he found in Alistair, and forge the both of them into a mighty, unstoppable blade. He had to mold them, prepare them, dispel any illusions of grandeur they had, show them the harsh reality of the world about them. They had each seen a glimpse of cruel life, both had tasted despair, but they had yet to find their darkest hour, the time when they would want to give in to the demons inside and let the Blight wipe from the land the vileness of the races that plagued it.

They had to learn that with the good came the bad, the sometimes duty came before personal feelings and sometimes personal feelings came before duty. They were young, naïve; they had not tasted war the way he had, had not seen their comrades slaughtered by the numbers and their skeletons strung up as a warning and reminder to others. They had not been spat upon by those that considered them useless or freaks, they had not been hailed as heroes or regarded as gods when they were really just cursed beings fighting 'til the end of their days. There were so many things, so many experiences, that they had yet to go through that it was a bit overwhelming for Duncan to think of, yet he wouldn't miss it all the same.

They were his charges now, Grey Wardens looking to him for guidance. And he would be damned if he let them down.

"Alistair," he asked suddenly, an observant eye training upon him. "Are you alright?"

The young man had had an anxious expression on his face during the joining, and it had returned during the brief hush they had shared along with something else that Duncan couldn't quite recognize.

Alistair shook his head, his misty eyes becoming sharp once again. "What? Me? Oh yes, fine. Top-notch even. Ready to kill some darkspawn. I wasn't daydreaming, not a bit." Her cheeks were a light red, which suggested that he had been daydreaming, though about what Duncan could only guess. "Just waiting for Sleeping Beauty here to get up. Er—not that I think she's a beauty. I mean she is, but she isn't. She is in the way that she is rather fetching, and not in the way that suggests that I am some lovelorn fool out for a bit of fun." He scratched the back of his head anxiously.

Duncan's brow lifted, amused by Alistair's antics.

While Alistair didn't quite have the Cousland girl's talent with a sword, his courage and loyalty were what made him a fierce warrior. Having been trained by the Chantry to be a Templar also had its advantages, and there were skills he had that only came with years of training. In addition to these traits, the young man also had plenty of pluck to keep him going; he could look at a dark situation and point out that it was very, very bad while bringing a smile to one's face at the same time, making them look forward to what could be their demise. His unique outlook on life and commentary would balance out the more serious nature of the Cousland girl, and Duncan could see them making quite the pair.

"You…you said she was of the Couslands, right?" The cheerfulness from Alistair's voice was gone, and his face no longer held any sort of positive emotion in it. The enigmatic look Duncan had seen on him earlier had vanished as well, replaced by deep sorrow.

Duncan nodded his head solemnly. "Yes."

Alistair let out a breath. "I wasn't snooping for information, and she certainly wasn't saying anything while we were out _there_,"—he waved his hand in the direction of the foreboding forest—"though I can't say I blame her, after what she's been through. It is true that her entire family was slaughtered?"

Something clicked in Duncan's mind, and he finally understood Alistair's sudden change in mood.

_Ah._

"Yes," he confirmed after a second. "The Couslands were betrayed and killed by Howe. She and her brother, Fergus, are all that remain."

"I see…"

Alistair was the king's bastard son, having been born illegitimately to a servant and then stowed away to hide his sire's mistake. Duncan, too, had been the bastard son of a noble and knew quite well what it was like to be cast out and denied by one's parents. For some reason, Alistair had grown attached to those that had raised him, even if he had been treated poorly and with suspicion, and put great stock into keeping them well. Duncan had even heard him mention a half-sister he had never met, though for some reason thought the world of. It was only natural, therefore, that he should be sympathetic towards the Cousland; she had just lost her mother, father, and everyone else she held dear. There was a chance that her brother was still alive, but the odds were against him.

Duncan could still see the heartbreak in her eyes, the burning tears in her eyes as she had left her mother and father to their fate, the corpses of her sister-in-law and nephew still fresh in her mind. He could still recall the tightness in her muscles, the weariness that had set in on their journey to Ostagar and the strength with which she had pushed on.

There was a soft moan from the ground, and Duncan looked down to see the girl in question beginning to come to.

"Oh! She's waking up," Alistair observed, his melancholy suddenly gone. "If you'll just excuse me, I need to back up a bit so she doesn't think I was doing something naughty. I'm afraid she already thinks I'm a drooling lecher; no need to reinforce that particular sentiment."

Duncan looked at Alistair curiously, but said nothing once again.

He was still getting to know the ex-Templar and he would have his hands full learning about the Cousland girl too. He was looking forward to seeing what heights they would achieve and how far they would go, replacing even perhaps him someday. They both had great potential and he was looking forward to the days, weeks, months, and years spent at their side.

His lips pulled in a tight line as the girl struggled to come to, obviously bewildered and confused. How many times he had seen that expression, one of fright and displacement, he could not count. The Joining wasn't a pleasant ceremony, and he had attended rituals where all potentials had died.

But these two hadn't; he had known from the start that they wouldn't. He had seen something special inside of them, something unique, pure, unbroken. He could still remember the first time he had laid eyes upon them, the first time he had set his sights on the future of Ferelden…


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Here is the first chapter! This takes place prior to Alistair's Joining.

~1~

The Chantry was in an uproar. Actually, the whole town was in an uproar. Loud noises, fantastic mishaps, drink, food, merriment, and all sorts of tomfoolery were alive within the streets. And Alistair, royal bastard/Templar in training, was stuck inside the Chantry's kitchen scrubbing pots, missing out on all the fun. As usual.

"Alistair, you do this to yourself you know. No one else to blame but you. Why can't you keep your mouth shut? Just for five minutes? Is it really so hard?"

The young man paused and tilted his head to the side, the rag hanging limply from his right hand. It appeared as if he was waiting for some ethereal voice to respond, but of course none came. Instead, he was left to answer the question himself.

"Of course it is so hard. You wouldn't be Alistair if it was easy now, would you? No, of course not."

Sighing, he glanced out the small window that allowed light to stream into his self-made hellhole, narrowing his eyes and smiling grimly as peals of laughter from the outside world trickled in to torment him.

He'd lost count of how many times he'd been sent to the kitchen as punishment for pulling some little prank or cracking up a little too wisely, but he was sure it was some sort of record. He would no doubt soon go down in history as "Alistair the Smartass, Royal Bastard, Almost-Templar that was Killed by His Own Comrades." Really, one would have thought he would have learned after spending more than a decade inside the Chantry's walls, but no, he had not.

"I suppose that's what I get for being raised by wild, flying dogs," he muttered to himself, looking sourly at the stack of pots by his knee. "A unique sense of humor that is not shared by anyone alive. No one understands me. Not that I mind…much."

He sighed dramatically again, sniffing as the sharp smell of an onion being cut tickled his nose. He wished that something more tolerable was permeating the air, something like cheese. Even a stinky cheese smell was better than an onion smell.

He glanced at the wooden door that separated him from the rest of humankind, contemplating whether or not he could ask the cook to do something about the smell, like maybe cut the little bastards outside or at the very least give him nose plugs. He quickly decided not to.

The cook was in a cooking fury, which was to be expected considering the occasion. It wasn't every day that the Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens came calling after all.

Everyone would be putting their best foot forward, everyone would be dressing up and polishing their silverware. Everyone would be taking a bath and combing their hair, perhaps even picking out the nasty things that were stuck in between their teeth. In short, everyone would look lovely for a change, their troubles forgotten for the time being.

And he was missing it.

"Couldn't stay out of trouble for one day, could you?" he asked himself darkly, his voice a low, bitter growl as he returned to his task. "No, you couldn't, could you? Could have been someone else doing this dastardly deed, but no! You just had to open your mouth and make a comment about Templar dress." He pouted slightly, a hurt look crossing his face. "It was a compliment, really it was. I didn't mean for it to come out sounding so sarcastic. Can't I say they look all nice and comfy in their nice, shiny armor?"

According to the Grand Cleric, he could not.

In retrospect, it was perhaps best that he was tucked away where the Grand Cleric's wrath could not reach him. At least in the kitchen he was not underfoot or milling about aimlessly. He had a tendency to do those things, even if he had a task. His mind liked to wander, and with all the festivities going on about him he would have been tempted to ditch his chores and join in.

It wasn't his fault that he was a "free spirit," as the Grand Cleric had more than once called him—and while he had taken it as a compliment he knew that she had meant it as an insult—and that he felt like there was just more to life than what he was doing.

Oh, he thought that the templar cause was a just one to be sure, and he respected those above him greatly and admired their bravery, but he just wasn't convinced that it was the life for him. He wasn't religious or devout, he wasn't serious or somber.

There was a sharp yell from the kitchen and Alistair couldn't help but snort. The cook was yelling at the help again, the stress of having only been warned a day in advance of the Warden-Commander's arrival grating on her.

Everyone was running about making a fuss, the Grand Cleric frowning and muttering as the chaos danced around her, no one quite sure whether she was upset over the fact that there was much to be done in so little time or that the Warden would more than likely be leaving with some of her men and women. Of course he wouldn't be taking them without a fight; the Grand Cleric was a stubborn one, determined to keep her Chantry fully staffed and capable of handling any crisis that came their way.

"Not like we have Abominations running about though. At least none that I've seen. Don't think they make pretty Abominations yet," Alistair said. "It wouldn't kill us to lose a templar or two to the Wardens. They'd be fighting for a very noble cause at the very least. The Grand Cleric can't object to that, can she? Oh wait, yes. Of course she can."

"Talking to yourself again? No wonder people think you're possessed."

Alistair let out a yelp and jumped to his feet, the pot that had been secured firmly between his legs falling to the floor with a loud clang. He hadn't heard the door to the pantry open.

Before him stood Ser Eryhn, one of the most accomplished templars in the order. She was fully decked out in templar gear, a slightly amused expression on her face as her eyes checked him over.

"S-Ser Eryhn," he stammered, a red blush creeping across his cheeks. "I wasn't expecting…well, anyone." He paused and mulled over her words, his cheeks puffing out in consternation. "The others don't really think I'm possessed, do they? Because I'm not. At least, I'm fairly positive I'm not. I haven't sprouted horns, have I?" He touched the sides of his head with soapy hands, searching.

Ser Eryhn shrugged, not really paying attention. "I've been sent to fetch you."

Alistair's eyebrows shot up. "Me? Who wants me?"

Another shrug. "The Grand Cleric I'd assume, since she was the one who told me to come get you."

Alistair cringed.

_Well this can't be good._

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it, I swear," he said, holding out his hands in a submissive gesture. "I've been sitting in this dungeon all day, right where she put me. I haven't been out in hours. Just ask the cook."

Eryhn managed to let out a laugh. "You're not in trouble Alistair."

"I'm not?" he went to scratch the back of his head, remembered the filthy slop on his hands, and settled for shifting uneasily on his feet. "That's rather unusual."

"Yes, it is."

"Gee, thanks. Nice vote of confidence there, thank you." He rolled his eyes before becoming serious once again. "Did she say what she wanted me for? If I'm not in trouble, what could she possibly want from me?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Eryhn turned to go, shifting her head to the side. "Now are you going to keep her waiting or are you coming with me?"

Alistair looked at the stack of pots and then back at Eryhn.

He really didn't have a choice in the matter; the Grand Cleric got what the Grand Cleric wanted. And if she wanted him out of there, then so be it. He was only too happy to comply.

"I'm coming," he said, throwing down the rag. "Just let me stop by the dormitories so I can freshen myself up and get a change of clothes. And have you seen my hair? It's a disaster."

"Yes, yes, fine," she said impatiently. "Let's just go."

He nodded at the cook as they exited the pantry, bidding her goodbye. She merely looked to the heavens, as if thanking the Maker that he was leaving.

_You'd think I'd have stolen all her cheese or something_, Alistair thought morosely to himself as he walked past her. _Oh wait…that's because I did._

As Alistair followed the templar out of the kitchen door, he got the eerie feeling that it would be the last time he ever stepped foot in the dreaded place. Casting one last look over his shoulder, his eyes took in every familiar detail, burning it into his mind. In all honesty, he would be fine never seeing the blasted kitchen again, but for some reason he knew he would regret if he didn't take this chance to tell it farewell.

Change was coming.


End file.
